An account of my explorations

Sweltering and sticking to the plastic seating on a coach with a hoard of tourists, I am keen to see the pyramids. We have been travelling in convoy from the ship to the barren landscape of Giza and as we approach the pyramids, the tour guide offers us the opportunity to get off and ride a camel.
“Yeah, can I?” my sister can’t wait.
“No thank you,” I don’t want to go anywhere near a camel. They’re freaky, right? At the brow of the hill my parents and I are flagging in the August heat and waiting for my sister to come gallantly trotting towards us. As we hover, a man wearing a red cap grabs my hand and pulls me towards a camel. He makes gestures suggesting that my Dad can take a photo of me standing next to the long-necked beast. I shrug away, I want an elegant photo, posing in front of a pyramid, not standing next to a smelly camel.
“Go on!” my Mum nags. “Stand next to him, don’t be silly.” I don’t want to. His friend grasps my arms, and I am put on top of the camel; my foot gets caught in my long white dress and I have no choice but to cling to him as he kicks the strange, ugly creature and leads me away. I wobble side-to-side on top of the hump; holding on tightly, I don’t care if I am bruising the man’s waist. It’s confusing, I don’t realise what is going on; a man on another camel is readily available for my Dad to get on and follow. And so, two camels with a couple of pasty English people and some men speaking in a foreign language, disappear from my Mum's view. We don’t go too far, just around the side of one of the smaller pyramids, where there is not a soul in sight.
In a short, curt, English manner I hear my Dad saying:
“No – I won’t give you any money. You’re to take us back right now.”
“Err, just give it him, Dad,” I suggest, politely, with a quiver of desperation in my voice. He refuses. After some raised voices and frustrated body language between the men, we are eventually taken back to the crowds of tourists and dumped. My Mum – rather flustered – has found the guide and explained what happened: “My daughter was snatched!”
Back on the coach, the tour guide and a policeman plough down the aisle to where I’m sitting. I’m asked to identify the man who took me.
“He will be punished!” the guide declares adamantly, in a strong Arabic accent. I look out the window at a scene of mayhem. Hundreds of people. Hundreds of hats. Many camels. There was no way. Not wanting to point to the wrong person, all I say is: “He was wearing a cap.”